


The Other Son

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, First Time, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-19
Updated: 2007-06-14
Packaged: 2018-09-03 13:37:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8715985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: A vision incites Sam to leave his father's side and head to Fitchburg. Without any clear notion as to what he is hunting, and no supernatural signs in the town of any kind as far as he can tell, Sam begins with what little he does know. But it doesn't take long before Sam begins to wonder if there might just be more than one mystery to be uncovered.





	1. Freak

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

“Where are you?”

 

“Dad,” Sam said. He’d been expecting the call, had actually assumed it would come earlier, before he’d gotten so close to his destination. It didn’t make speaking with his father any easier. He gripped the phone in his hand, watched as Fitchburg welcomed him proudly with a bright sign that declared its population (2,051). Sam ignored the sign, his fingers tensing on the steering wheel until the knuckles turned white, and then he relaxed his grip.

 

“Sam?”

 

“I’m just entering Fitchburg.”

 

“Fitchburg,” John paused. “There’s nothing happening in Fitchburg.” John said it with the sort of authority Sam had gotten used to hearing, and he defied it with an ease he had cultivated over the years of being kept under his father’s sharp eye.

 

“Yes, there is.”

 

“What?”

 

“…I’m not exactly sure.” Outside the window various pieces of the landscape sent prickles through him -- jogged vague senses of memory. Sam had never been to Fitchburg before.

 

“You don’t even know …” John’s tone changed, grew deeper and his words clearer. “Sam. Are you … don’t you do this.”

 

It had been a long time since that tone of voice had worked to keep Sam in check. He’d been out hunting on his own for over two years. He was twenty-one, old enough to make his own choices. “I can’t just ignore it, Dad.”

 

“Sam. I want you to stop this. I have a job; people are getting hurt. Turn the car around, Sammy.” Sam had reached the heart of the small town, there were restaurants and shops and a play-park, it was as good a spot as any to get out and get a feel for the place.

 

“This is where I’m supposed to be,” Sam said.

 

“Where you need to be is over in Indiana, where there is an actual case – actual reports coming in about people getting hurt. Do you have any idea what you’re walking into there?”

 

“No, I don’t,” Sam admitted. He pulled the impala over to the side of the road and let it idle. Fitchburg was not as small as Sam had been expecting it to be, but it was in no way a large town and there weren’t many people cluttering the streets despite the sun being out and the sky being as blue as it was.

 

“I don’t want you over there by yourself, at the mercy of …”

 

“Of what?” Sam asked. “Of what, dad? You trust your instincts all the time!”

 

“That’s something different.”

 

“How so? You want me to pretend this isn’t a part of me, but I can’t. I’ve tried, dad. Believe me, I’d like nothing more than to be just like anyone else. But I’m not. Right now, everything in me is saying that this is where I need to be.”

 

“Sammy …”

 

“I’ll call you when I figure out what’s going on.” Sam ended the call and dropped the phone on the seat beside him. He was hungry and he needed to get a feel for the town, figure-out what had drawn him there.

 

Sam had spent most of his life learning how to blend-in, to look like he belonged, no matter how awkward and out-of-place he felt. Some towns sent shivers up his spine, prickles of unease like he was being watched or weighed, like people were just waiting for him to slip-up. Fitchburg wasn’t one of those places. Instead, as Sam stepped-out of the car into the warm summer air, it felt like being wrapped in a blanket. His car was the one thing that didn’t blend, not anywhere -- a ’67 Chevy impala that had been his dad’s for the longest time, which Sam had inherited by rights when he’d finally gotten around to getting his license – making it official that he could drive. Sam loved and hated that car.

 

He was always aware that he and the car didn’t quite look as if they belonged together – the car a sleek, visibly powerful and perhaps even threatening beast, and himself, tall and carefully disguised to look gangly and unthreatening. Sam liked to hide his muscles, walking around like a stork that might be blown-over in a stiff breeze because, in a bar when someone wanted to pick a fight they never anticipated the thick muscle that his loose clothes were masking – and Sam could move. Still, even with the juxtaposition, Sam got a friendly smile from an older woman stepping out of a deli across the street, and when she’d finished stuffing her purchases into a large wicker-woven purse, she stepped across the street, still grinning.

 

“New to town?” she asked.

 

“Passing through,” Sam said. “Looking for some place to eat, and a place to stay for a while.”

 

“I’m Sheila.” Sheila thrust forward a hand that Sam shook, always caught off-guard by small-town friendliness however many times he’d encountered it.

 

“Sam,” he said.

 

“Pleasure.” She hitched her bag up on her shoulder. “For food, you have a fair selection, but that deli,” she indicated the store she’d just come from. “Cheap and fresh. Burt’s the best in town,” she whispered conspiratorially, and then wiggled her fingers drawing Sam’s attention to the ring on her finger. “I might be biased.” Sam laughed and her welcoming grin grew wider. “As far as a place to stay, there’s a few B&B’s.” Sam’s look must have let her know what he thought of that. Bed and Breakfasts were always comfortable and pleasant, but they offered restricted privacy, which was never good in Sam’s line of work, and they also cost more. “But something tells me you’d prefer the motel – 2400 Court Motel – which incidentally is also its address. Just down there,” she indicated a street that branched to the right, behind the large school he was parked in front of.

 

“Thanks a lot,” he said.

 

“Not a problem. It doesn’t take long to get oriented in a town like this, but every little bit helps. But I’ve got to run – have to swing by my mum’s before dinner. Nice to meet you!” She waved as she headed away.

 

Sam chose Burt’s deli, hoping Sheila’s fiancé would be as talkative and friendly as Sheila had been, and also that Burt had some idea of what might have drawn Sam to Fitchburg in the first place. As it was, though Burt was indeed talkative and friendly and more than willing to help, there didn’t seem to be anything strange happening there.

 

…………………………………….

 

2400 Court Motel was fairly large and actually a bit busy – for a town like Fitchburg, Sam supposed. He’d long since forgotten what a comfortable bed felt like – if he’d ever known – but this bed was at least less lumpy than most, and thankfully, there was no telling dip in the centre of the mattress.

 

Regardless of how peaceful the town seemed there were precautions that needed to be taken. The smell of salt had meant safety to Sam since the age of three where the habit of laying lines of it by doors and windows had begun to shift from merely a quirk and a tradition to an awareness of an attached purpose. Usually that was as far as Sam went, but he was on his own in an unfamiliar town, hunting something that he knew nothing about. For all Sam knew, salt wasn’t enough. He pulled his chalk pencil from his bag and set about marking protection sigils just in case, and only then did he allow himself to collapse onto the bed, savouring the quiet.

 

It didn’t last. “Bobby?” Sam asked as he flipped open his ringing phone.

 

“Did I wake ya?”

 

“No,” Sam lied, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. “My dad didn’t make you call, did he?”

 

Bobby’s low laugh crackled over the line. “He went by the Road House. Ellen made me call you. The way she was talking, it almost sounded like you up and joined the circus.”

 

Sam laughed. “Not quite. I just drove out to Fitchburg.”

 

“You got yourself a hunt.”

 

“Not exactly,” Sam said. There was a silence over the line, which meant that Bobby was waiting for him to elaborate but wasn’t going to push. “I just – I had to come here.”

 

“Ah,” Bobby said, and there was a dawning understanding in his voice. “Chasing a vision. No wonder you daddy’s got himself tied in knots.”

 

“He’s not coming out here, is he?”

 

“Not yet.” There was a pause. “Sam. I know it frustrates you, the way your daddy is, but you’ve got to understand … what with what happened …”

 

“I know, Bobby,” Sam said. “That’s the only reason why I haven’t up and left.”

 

“Seems to me that’s exactly what you’ve done.”

 

“This is different. He wants me to ignore what I see. And when we do follow the visions, he takes so many damned precautions that, more often than not, we’re there after most of the damage has been done. Suddenly, all my instincts are suspect, like I’m purposely – stupidly – running headlong into a trap. It’s like he thinks I’m a complete idiot.”

 

“No. He just wants you to be safe.”

 

“There is no safe, Bobby,” Sam argued. “These visions – they’re a part of me. The things I see … it’s been so damn hard to let it go, but I’ve tried.”

 

“Wanna tell me what’s changed?”

 

“I dunno,” Sam sighed. “It was a dream that I kept having, again and again, every night. And then I nearly drove off the road when it happened in the middle of the day when I was wide-awake, and it felt different. Every vision I’ve ever had, I never felt compelled. I mean I maybe wanted to save someone from getting hurt, or wanted to help or something – but this was like – I was desperate. I couldn’t breathe, all I could think was that I somehow had to get there and stop it, and it was so strong I couldn’t think straight, not until the vision finally ran its course.”

 

“You tell John about that?”

 

“I tried to – you know dad.”

 

“Of course I know John. Why do you think I threatened to blast him with a buck shot if I saw him again?” The comment was joking. Bobby had threatened exactly that – and at the time, had meant it – but he’d always been willing to help Sam out, and that meant a tentative truce with John Winchester, if only because the man was Sam’s father. It was a cautious peace, but Sam had learned to take what he could get. “What did you see?”

 

“That’s the thing. I didn’t see any creature – not a demon, not anything. It was just random shots, y’know? Like the sign for Fitchburg; certain buildings, hardwood floors and a rocket-ship bedspread. A man’s hand with a silver ring – and then this guy – young, couldn’t have been much older than me. He was just lying there, like he was sleeping. But, it looked unnatural.”

 

“That’s not much to go on.”

 

“Yeah, you’re not kidding. I’ve spoken with about a dozen different people and none of them know of anything odd around here. Not even so much as a supposedly haunted house or a creepy story.”

 

“You checked-out the landmarks you saw?”

 

“Nothing much, really, just the library and some random street corner on the edge of town. I mean, the bed spread suggests a kid, but I went by the school and everything seemed normal.”

 

“Well, you know what I’d suggest?”

 

“What?”

 

“Go find some teenagers. They know all the gossip and are always more than eager to dish it out. You need to find some kind of lead, and even if Fitchburg’s small, it’s still big enough that you can’t stand in the middle of the main street until you spot whoever that boy you saw in your vision. And even if you did, what are the chances he’d actually know anything?”

 

“Thanks, Bobby.”

 

“Not that it was much help. But listen, you be careful. Those visions of yours have gotten you into enough trouble already. You keep in touch, I want to know what the hell it is you’re huntin’.”

 

“You and me both. Bye, Bobby.” He flipped the phone closed and tossed it back onto the nightstand, flopping backwards onto the bed and trying to think of the best course of action. In his experience, Bobby had a point. Whether they were reliable sources or not, teenagers, especially the ones in small towns like this one, always knew some sort of story that they were more than willing to share. He checked his watch, enough time for a nap and a quick dinner, and then he’d go out and try to find where the kids in a place like this hung-out.

 

……………………………..

 

“Mrs. Falco – the chemistry teacher – total alien,” Rich said.

 

“Really,” Sam said, trying to contain a smirk.

 

“I saw her scales.”

 

“She was wearing alligator-skin boots,” Tony said, knocking Rich’s shoulder.

 

“Scales on her arms,” Rich corrected.

 

“Well, thanks for your help,” Sam said, standing from the table. He refused to be disheartened. Whatever it was that he had witnessed in his vision – obviously it hadn’t started yet, which meant that Sam could stop it. Still, it was frustrating to be hunting blind.

 

Anticipating an early start and not looking forward to black coffee, Sam went-up to the counter. “Pete’s Burgers,” the kid greeted, oily blond hair slicked back beneath a white paper hat that bore the title of the burger store in large orange print. “What can I get ya.”

 

“Two cartons of milk,” Sam requested, pulling his cash from his pocket. The kid nodded and retrieved Sam’s order, dropping both cartons onto the counter but not reaching for the money.

 

“You’ve been asking around – about weird things, right?” the kid asked.

 

Sam tensed his jaw and nodded. “Yeah, I have. You know something?”

 

“Not me,” the kid hastened to say. “But if you’re looking for something weird, you should speak to the Freak.”

 

Sam almost winced at the term. He’d been applying it to himself for a while, had heard it applied to him as well, by other hunters who were suspicious about the Winchester men and their uncanny success with whatever they hunted. Most hunters specified – Sam and his father never did – they’d never had to. Part of that had been Sam’s visions, but most of it was just because they were that good. “Freak?”

 

“You think I’m an asshole for saying it,” the kid said. “Well, you’ll be sayin’ it too if you spend even five minutes with him.”

 

“Does he have a name? Or an address?”

 

“He works up at The Wyvern. He’s the bartender there.”

 

Sam handed over the money for the milk and the kid slid the cartons forward. “Thanks,” Sam said.

 

……………………………………

 

It was getting late, but Sam kept driving around the damned streets, following various people’s directions in the hopes of stumbling on The Wyvern. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t the two-storey log building with the large red and gold sign. The place was tasteful if a bit rustic from the exterior, and when Sam pushed-open the blue swinging door he discovered that this was true of the interior as well.

 

The Wyvern was part restaurant and part bar. It was casual and comfortable; apparently it was a good place to relax. Sam bypassed the restaurant area – mostly empty at this time of night – and entered the bar. If the burger joint had been the place to go to find teenager, the Wyvern was the place to find everyone else. A group of twenty-something were occupying a corner booth, their laughter filling the quiet pub as they played some variation of a drinking game. Some older men were seated by the bar, nursing pints but looking more content than anything else – no one was really trying to drown their sorrows, it looked like a place to be social more than anything else.

 

Sam couldn’t exactly pull someone aside and ask which one The Freak was, so he headed over to the bar and slid onto a stool, fishing in his jacket pocket to make sure he had the money to accommodate any drinking he might do. “What can I get ya?”

 

“Uhm,” Sam said. “Just a beer.”

 

“No preference?”

 

Sam looked-up at the bartender, the man that the kid at the burger place had assured him was a freak, and held his breath. “It’s you,” he said, somewhat startled to find himself looking into the exact face he had seen in his vision, although then the eyes had been closed and Sam hadn’t experienced the full hazel gaze. The bartender raised his eyebrows. “Uh,” Sam said. “Sorry. No, just – whatever’s on tap.” He watched as the man moved away, black dress pants hanging perfectly off a well-built frame. He wore his white shirt with the top-button open allowing a sinful peak at his throat where a black leather cord hung, and the sleeves rolled-up to just below the elbow. Sam chewed his lip and then dragged his eyes away hastily when the bartender turned back carrying Sam’s drink. He slid the pint across to Sam with a cocky grin, plucking the money from Sam’s fist and making quick change before he shuffled to the other end of the bar where a black-haired woman with blue eyes was leaning forward, flapping her hands.

 

Sam nursed his drink, watching inconspicuously as the girl spoke with the bartender – the very good looking bartender who was also the man in Sam’s vision, and also, apparently, the Freak. He couldn’t help but notice that despite the relaxed atmosphere in the bar, no one was really talking with the bartender – which was strange, because in all the small-town bars Sam had been to, there was always at least one chatty customer. Then again, if the man had earned himself a nickname like ‘Freak’, maybe the bar regulars tolerated the bartender but also maybe feared him, although, it didn’t look like that woman was afraid.

 

It wasn’t jealousy, not really. Sam night have been bi-sexual, but he also knew that not every attractive guy he saw and wanted was necessarily gay, or bi, or available. He assured himself that this was likely a very good thing. Maybe the bartender and that woman had a kid, and that was what that bedspread had been all about. If that were the case, then all Sam had to do was keep an eye on the kid and make sure his or her attractive father didn’t step in the way of something dark and nasty in a futile attempt at protection. Simple. Easy.

 

“Yeah, right,” Sam muttered as he finished the last of his pint. He dropped a twenty on the counter and made his way out of the bar.

 

………………………………..

 

At around three o’clock in the morning, the bartender whose name Sam had yet to actually garner, left the Wyvern, along with the same young woman who had been talking with him earlier. Sam watched as she started-up the beat-up green civic as the bartender slid into the passenger seat, and slammed the door shut.

 

Anyone else, and Sam would have been pulling-out and following. The impala wasn’t exactly great for stealth, but people were rarely expecting to be followed, and even then, it wasn’t like Sam was entirely blatant. But there had been something in those hazel eyes in those brief seconds when he had looked into them – something cautious and entirely too knowing. So instead, Sam watched the car drive-out and after waiting an appropriate amount of time, pulled-out after. With the streets as empty as they were, it was a simple thing to follow close-enough to see where they were headed, but far enough back to be nothing more than a distant set of headlights.

 

The civic pulled to the curb by a little yellow house with blue shutters, and the bartender slid-out of the passenger seat, throwing a casual wave over his shoulder as he climbed the steps. Sam had no idea how to proceed.

 

\----------------------------

End Chapter One:


	2. Shtriga

The difficulty with not knowing what he was after, or where to look for information, was that Sam had to wing-it – more so than he usually did. He had a box in his glove-compartment filled with fake ID’s, fake badges, fake authority, but he was hesitant to use any of them because it was a small town, if he started flashing a badge and asking questions well, he might get answers, but what happened if later on down the line when the shit really hit the fan, he needed a different badge to get what he needed?

 

The next step, Sam considered as he sat on the hood of his car licking at the ice cream he had bought as dessert, was obviously to talk to that bartender – Sam refused to think of him as The Freak. The difficulty was how he should go about doing that. He could be casual and make small talk at the bar, but Sam doubted that would work. If the man lived in a town where the kids considered him a Freak then Sam doubted the man would be very chatty, especially when asked about weird things he may or may not have seen or heard about going down in his town. But what excuse could Sam give for asking such vague questions if he flashed a badge? He could go in from the side, flirt with the man (he had been extremely attractive after all) and then bring-up the subject casually, but after what Sam had seen the night before, he didn’t harbour much hope that the man might respond well to Sam flirting.

 

Which left that girl. If she were as close to the bartender as it had seemed, then she might know something herself, or at least might be a way for Sam to meet the man without raising his hackles.

 

His cell-phone rang as he was considering his game plan, and he checked the caller ID before flipping it open. “Dad,” he greeted.

 

“You didn’t check-in.”

 

“I spoke to you yesterday.”

 

“You call me every night, is that clear?” John said. “You find anything?”

 

“I bumped into someone from my vision.” Sam finished his ice cream, crumpling the napkin he’d been given into a ball and tossing it neatly into the trash on the curb. “Haven’t had a chance to speak with him yet, though.”

 

“How is he involved?”

 

“I don’t know yet.” Sam didn’t like admitting to his father how little he had to go on. It was already clear that John was just waiting for some sign that Sam was having trouble and then he’d be on his way to Fitchburg as well.

 

“I don’t like this, Sam. I don’t like you off on your own chasing a vision.” There was a pause, because Sam really had nothing he could say to that -- he wasn’t going to turn around, he didn’t want his father’s help, and John knew that. “Call tonight and tell me what you’ve found.” The dial tone signalled the end of the conversation and Sam spent a solid ten minutes trying to harness his anger. John was far too used to bossing and getting his way. It was what inspired Bobby to cock his shotgun at the man in the first place. Sam wished sometimes that he could do just that as well – draw a line in the sand. Something solid and clear and easy that would make it clear once and for all that he was his own person, that he could think and make decisions as effectively – and sometimes more effectively – than his own father. That he didn’t have to be led around by the nose anymore, he’d grown up.

 

There were clouds in the sky – light and fluffy, moving across the blue at a leisurely pace. When he was on his own, without the pressure of a case bearing down on him, Sam always wondered what it would have been like if he’d gone ahead with what he’d been secretly planning – sending out applications and heading-off to college. He’d kept-up with his marks as well as he could given that there was always something that needed hunting, and though they were not quite as high as he would have preferred, he’d gone so far as to fill-out the applications anyway. Letters had arrived in the mail, but by that point Sam had already known that there was no way he could leave his father alone. John needed the help on the hunts, and Sam was all he had left in the world. Sam hadn’t opened a single letter, but he’d kept them in the bottom of his suitcase to look-off wistfully when it all was too much to bear.

 

“You look solemn,” a voice boomed. Sam looked up to find Burt, the deli owner and Sheila’s fiancée, standing in front of him. “Come on, come sit in the shop and relax awhile. I’ll even give you a coffee, on the house.”

 

“Thanks,” Sam said, trailing after the man. There were things he should be doing, but the longer Sam was away from John, the less pressure he felt to return quickly. It was more than apparent that Sam’s vision was not happening with any haste.

 

Burt flipped the ‘Back in 5’ sign over so that it read ‘open!’ and headed to the counter where he put a fresh pot of coffee on. “Something you want to talk about?”

 

“Just my dad,” Sam said. “We butt heads sometimes – a lot, actually.”

 

“Well, that’s how it is,” Burt said. “My old man, he used to yell something fierce. Sometimes he’d make good on his threats, too. Most of the time, though, I think he was just scared. I was growin’-up too fast, doing things he’d never done before. He was just trying to hold-on as long as he could.” Burt set the coffee down on the table Sam had seated himself at.

 

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Sam said politely, although he had his own ideas on why John was the way he was.

 

“How are you settling into town?”

 

“Pretty good,” Sam said, happy for the topic change. “I found my way over to the Wyvern last night.”

 

“Ah, that’s a good place,” Burt said. “Sheila and I go there every Friday night. Nice to unwind, y’know?”

 

“Yeah,” Sam said, and then glanced over at Burt. “Pretty quiet,” he said casually.

 

“Quiet? The Wyvern? Ha!”

 

“Folks keep to themselves, I mean.”

 

“Ah,” Burt said, realization dawning. He wiped his countertop with a rag and then braced his hands on it. “You’re talking about the bartender.”

 

“First time I ever saw people sitting at the bar and not harassing the person behind it.”

 

“Yeah, well. That’s the way it goes,” Burt said. “It’s a shame, really. Dean’s a good kid, but -- well. He’s had some troubles. You have to understand that small town friendly can also mean small town superstitious.”

 

“What’s there to be superstitious about? He looked pretty average to me.” He had, in fact, looked anything but average, but Sam hadn’t seen any reason for an entire town to get the heebie-jeebies just because the man was uncommonly attractive.

 

“You know that, and I know that, but people talk.” Sam thought maybe Burt might have more to say, but he shook his head somewhat sadly and went back to moving things about his counter. The movement was mechanical; something to do so Burt wouldn’t have to stand still. Whatever it was about the bartender – about this ‘Dean’ – that Burt was sharing made the man uncomfortable.

 

“People talk?” Sam prompted.

 

“Dean’s a good boy, I don’t like talking about him like this,” Burt said.

 

“Alright,” Sam hastened to say. “I’m sorry.”

 

Burt nodded, and Sam went back to his coffee, finishing it quickly and trying to figure-out what to do with the bit of information he had gleaned. It wasn’t just the teenagers; the entire town was on edge as far as Dean went. “Look,” Burt said after a moment. “You wanted some supernatural stories for your book, right?” Sam paused; it took a moment before he could recall that this was exactly the excuse he’d given for his strange questions the day before. “I don’t exactly have any. Sheila’s lived here since birth and between the both of us we haven’t heard a thing. But generally we both keep ourselves to ourselves, you understand?”

 

“I think so,” Sam said.

 

“So you might ask someone who’s more likely to be in the thick of it – if there was something – you get me?”

 

“Who might that be?”

 

Burt’s face shifted, displaying crinkles that barely showed when he was relaxed, but his frown was harsh and measuring. “You talk to Sophia, down at the Diner – Rosemary’s is the name of it. You be real sweet and charming, and maybe she might have something to tell you.”

 

“Okay,” Sam said. He rose and brought the white coffee mug to the counter. “Thanks for the coffee.”

 

“You take care not to stir-up trouble.”

 

“I’m just trying to write a book,” Sam said, sheepish-innocent smile on his face. It usually smoothed out all kinds of ruffled feathers for him, and Burt relaxed immediately.

 

……………………………………..

 

Rosemary’s Diner looked like something a mitten-knitting, cookie-baking, flower-print loving grandmother might consider a kitchen. Mostly there was a lot of pink – and wicker. Sam was sort of wishing that Sophia – whoever she was – worked anywhere but a diner because he’d had a big lunch (Sam knew of no other way to eat but in a big way) and he’d followed that lunch with an ice cream, and then Burt had given him the coffee – the last thing Sam wanted to see was more food.

 

“Can I help you?” Sam looked-up from the menu he’d been eyeing with trepidation. The woman had greying brown hair pinned-back in a loose bun, and large spectacles that magnified her eyes so that they filled the entirety of the large frames.

 

“Uh,” Sam said, momentarily thrown-off by the large eyes. “Ice cream,” Sam managed. “Vanilla.”

 

“Sure thing, Sweet Cheeks,” the woman said.

 

“And I’m looking for Sophia. Is she in today?”

 

The woman smiled a little knowingly and then turned and hollered: “Sophia! Gentleman caller!” It attracted the attention of every other patron in the diner, but it also effectively summoned Sophia to Sam’s table -- Sophia, who Sam recognized immediately as being the young woman who had been at the bar the night before. “You’ve got a break, Honey.”

 

“Thanks, Rosemary,” the girl said. Up close, Sam was better able to see her. She was very pale, with dark blue eyes and long black hair with the bangs cropped low and in a rigid line across her forehead. “Can I help you?” she asked once Rosemary moved away, assuring Sam she’d bring his ice cream.

 

“Please,” Sam said, gesturing opposite him, relieved when she slid into the seat, albeit hesitantly. “I’m sorry to bother you at work, but this is where Burt said to find you.”

 

“Oh, Burt,” Sophia immediately relaxed, folding her hands and propping them up on the table.

 

“My name’s Sam. I’ve been travelling around collecting any strange stories that towns have to offer.”

 

“Sure, like the Brothers Grimm.”

 

“Except – not fairytales.”

 

Sophia sat back and took that in. A moment later, Rosemary was back at the table, sliding Sam’s vanilla ice cream towards him and pinching his cheek. He picked-up the spoon but couldn’t quite make himself dig-in to the dessert.

 

“You don’t seem like vanilla to me,” Sophia said. Her gaze was shrewd and though he wasn’t sure how, Sam was certain that they were talking about more than ice cream flavours, or even sex. They stared at each other a moment, and then Sophia reached over and plucked the cherry garnish from the top of Sam’s ice cream, biting it cleanly off the stem. The message was clear: “You’re lying. But I’ll bite.”

 

“Strange how?”

 

“Supernatural,” Sam said. “Weird. Uncanny,” he paused and spooned-up a glob of ice cream before glancing at her. “Freaky.”

 

The comment didn’t phase her. “Mrs. Falco is an alien.”

 

Sam actually had to bite-back a laugh. “I’ve got that one.”

 

“Shucks. I just heard that one,” Sophia said. She tapped her fingers on the table and then looked around. “I’m not an idiot, okay?” she said, finally looked back at Sam directly. “But look –“ whatever she was about to say was cut-off when the diner chimes sang-out announcing a new customer – one that brought a bit of chatter with them. Sophia turned to look over her shoulder, and then she was sliding out of the booth altogether. “Dean!”

 

“Soph!” Dean greeted. “Look, I just—“ his eyes met Sam’s, it almost seemed to require effort to break the gaze, but then Dean was carrying on as if nothing had happened. “I just need to talk to you for a second.”

 

“Sure, in the back,” she gestured over his shoulder, any thought of Sam completely forgotten.

 

Sam stabbed his spoon into the ice cream. It was forward and back with this case, like running in circles in the dark. Somehow whatever was happening or was about to happen in Fitchburg involved Dean. Dean – with wide hazel eyes and freckles across the bridge of his nose. Dean, who had broad hands and the devil in his smile, who needed only the briefest moment of eye-contact to pull you under. Dean, who had just nabbed a cheese Danish from the serving counter on his way out of the diner. Sam didn’t realize he was staring until Sophia’s voice coming from directly beside him almost made him start. Almost. He was a hunter, after all.

 

“I have seven minutes.” It didn’t seem exactly like an invitation, but she cocked her head to the side and seemed to be waiting for Sam to get-up, so that’s what he did. They were silent as she led the way out of the diner down the street. “He’s my best friend.”

 

“Who?” Sam said, pretending to be confused.

 

“Dean.” She plucked a hair elastic from around her wrist and paused to tie her hair back in a knot. “So if you’re implying that he’s a freak, you’re fast-tracking for an ass-kicking.”

 

Sam laughed a little and nodded. “Okay.”

 

“I get that it’s something the townspeople say, but it’s a bunch of crap.”

 

“I didn’t mean to offend you. Or insult your friend, it’s just what I heard,” Sam was quick to say, well aware that this was the only lead he had and he couldn’t screw it up. Sophia stared at him measuringly and then smiled, nodding once before gesturing to something across the street. “Okay, what am I looking at?” he wondered as he stared at the park.

 

“It’s what you wanted to know,” Sophia said. “School’s out.”

 

School was out, and yet there was only one child climbing on the equipment, dangling off the monkey bars. It looked awkward and lonely without the echo of children’s laughter and happy squeals. “Where are the kids?”

 

“Some kind of epidemic that’s moving through the kids.”

 

“They’re all sick?” Sam said doubtfully.

 

Sophia shrugged. “The parents think whatever it is might be contagious, they’re keeping their kids away just to be safe.”

 

“How many are sick? Do you know?” He was thinking of the rocket-ship bedspread, wondering why he hadn’t paid more attention when he’d gone through the schools. But a few absences wasn’t anything, and the principle hadn’t mentioned anything strange.

 

“Five or six.”

 

“How do you know all of this?”

 

“I baby-sit,” Sophia said. “And it’s a small town. Parents get worked-up enough and they talk. Especially the parents of the kids I baby-sit,” she whistled. “These days I get a whole list of things I can’t let them do can’t let them touch – just to be safe.”

 

“Sure, right,” Sam said. Sophia checked her watch and Sam remembered that she only had a short break. “Look, thanks for your help. I don’t mean to keep you.”

 

“It’s not a problem,” she said, her demeanour seeming warmer than she’d started out. “Good luck, Winchester.” Sam thanked her again and was halfway to his car before he realized that she’d called him by a name he had never given her.

 

……………………………………

 

If there was one thing Sam liked about hunting, it was the research. The smell of musty tomes was the smell of his childhood, entertaining himself in Pastor Jim’s library, or wandering through the libraries searching the stacks because though John could track weather-patterns and police records without problem, the nitty-gritty stuff always left him in a bad mood – and he was hard enough for Sam to take as it was. Then there would be the hunts where John already knew what and how to deal with whatever they were after and so refused to do more research just so Sam could know ‘why’?

 

Over the years, various contacts – John sometimes god upset when Sam referred to them as friends, as if he were discounting their job or something – would pass-on a tome, or a useful book, and Sam added them to his stash in the truck – just another kind of weapon.

 

He made a list of everything that he could think of that focussed on kids and would attack in a way that could be interpreted as some kind of sickness. There weren’t as many as Sam had originally thought, but still too many for him to really start focussing.

 

It was too late to visit the hospital, but not late enough that he could justify settling in. He phoned Bobby first, brainstormed and crossed a few of the candidates off his list accounting for seasonal patterns, the lunar cycle, and apparent feeding habits. However much Sam thought he had learned, it was always humbling to realize how much more Bobby knew. “I’ve been huntin’ since you were in diapers, don’t let it get to you,” Bobby said. “And call your daddy.”

 

Sam hated to do – checking in was for teenagers, not for hunters – not when he was twenty-one and well due a taste of independence. “Hey dad,” Sam said when John’s gruff voice answered.

 

“Sammy.”

 

“I’m fine. I’ve focussed in a bit. Whatever this thing is, it’s going after kids. It’s not too far along yet; mostly just the parents of small children are worried. They think it’s an epidemic.”

 

“An epidemic?”

 

“Yeah, but I haven’t had a chance to talk to the doctors yet.”

 

“Well, you do that first thing. And you call me.”

 

Sam rolled his eyes because he already intended to go to the hospital in the morning, and of course his dad had already ordered him to check-in nightly. “Well. I was just checkin’ in.”

 

“Sammy,” John said. “Tell ‘em you’re from the centre for disease control, they should let you in.” John had hung-up long before Sam could snarl that he’d already thought of that, ‘thank-you-very-much’ and would he kindly stop acting as if Sam were stupid!

 

Irritated, and more than a little frustrated with the slow progress of the case when usually his visions launched him into a whirlwind of activity, Sam grabbed his wallet and headed out.

 

…………………………….

 

At the back of the Wyvern, with a perfect view of the bar, was a pool table. Sam needed more cash, seeing as he wasn’t sure how long he’d be in town, and this was the perfect set-up. Hustle pool, and keep tabs on Dean – two birds, one stone.

 

It was even better when he hooked his prey while he was seated at the bar. A hulking kid with black hair called Sam a ‘tall drink of water’ and their conversation had deteriorated from there until they had over one hundred dollars down on the game.

 

Dean had let-out a surprised laughed as he’d looked up from where he’d been wiping-up a spill on the counter, and shook his head. “Good luck, Andy,” he’d said.

 

“Piss off,” Andy had retorted. Sam had glanced up to see how Dean would react, but Dean was waiting for the glance and tossed a wink his way, like they were sharing a private joke. Sam had won cleanly and easily, taking the kid for all he was worth, because honestly, it wasn’t much. When he’d finished the game he headed back to the bar where Dean was already sliding a shot of whisky across the bar to him.

 

“Thanks,” Sam said, reaching to hand-over the cash, but Dean waved it away. “Really, thanks.” Dean nodded absently as filled-up a mug for another customer. “I don’t suppose you play.”

 

“I might be a little rusty,” Dean said with mischief in his eyes. “Y’know. I don’t play that often.” Sam laughed out loud because he’d been hustling long enough to know when he was getting rooked. Dean grinned back a little before he hurried off to deliver the beer. Sam realized his laughter had attracted attention, and now most people in the establishment were sneaking suspicious glances at him. “Wow, that’s some kind of social stigma,” he muttered before he knocked back the whisky. He dropped the glass back on the counter, waving to Dean as he was heading out. Dean smirked a little and waved back. Sam paused – on Dean’s hand, there was a silver ring.

 

…………………………………..

 

If there was one thing he learned from his father, it’s how to distance himself from a case. There would be times (many of them, Sam remembers) when he would be too nervous, too worked-up to think about eating, or even be able to keep anything down. The consequences were always severe – hunting when you were at anything less than 100% was a huge risk, because hunting when you were 100% was a risk already.

 

Sam managed some sleep, though it wasn’t entirely satisfying. And though he can’t stop going over the vision in his head, piecing together the fact that it was Dean’s face he’d seen – blank and unresponsive – and Dean’s hand with that silver ring – and Dean who was called a freak and was best-friends with a girl who knew things without being told. He broke the vision down into snapshots and wrote-out what he knew about each piece, and then he headed out to the coffee shop on the street corner to get a bagel and a coffee before he hit the hospital.

 

…………………………………….

 

“Thank God you’ve gotten here,” Dr. Heidekker said, his face pinched but his eyes shining with relief. “I was about to call. How did you know to come?”

 

“Another GP phoned in,” Sam dismissed easily. “What can you tell me about the cases?”

 

“Not much,” Heidekker said, turning to peer through the glass partition where Sam could see a little boy hooked-up to equipment, fast asleep. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes and his skin had the rubbery-pallor of a hard-boiled egg. “It seems like bacterial pneumonia. The kids’ white cell count is low, they’re all unconscious.”

 

“All of them?” Sam asked. “Not one has woken-up?”

 

“No,” Dr. Heidekker said. “They’re not responding to medication, either.” He paused when a nurse stopped beside them, handing over a clipboard with a requisition form for his signature. She smiled a little at Sam, the kind of awkward smile of greeting that said that she was pleased to see him because they were at a complete loss.

 

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” Sam wondered.

 

Dr. Heidekker shook his head. “It’s the way it spreads,” volunteered the nurse. “I mean, it seems like pneumonia, but it’s working its way through families – only the children – and then it moves on. Pneumonia doesn’t do that.”

 

Pneumonia might not move through families like that, but a creature or a spirit might. If it’s usual prey was children, it would find a house with kids, then keep going back until it had picked them all off before moving on to another home. Sam had his list narrowed-down to about five possible creatures, which was at least a manageable list.

 

“Is it possible to speak with the families?” Sam asked.

 

“Of course,” Dr. Heidekker said with a helpless little shrug. “If you think it will help.”

 

“Who was your most recent admission?”

 

……………………………………..

 

Mr. Shyre had two girls, both of whom had come down with the mystery illness. He seemed content to blame an open window, though the weather had been mild. Sam figured that most people wouldn’t question doctors, were only too happen to believe in simple, rational explanations – especially when they were distraught. He hadn’t spoken to the man’s wife, it didn’t take much time for him to realize that maybe the parents wouldn’t have the kind of information that he needed. What he did learn was the address to the Shyre family home – unoccupied for the time being because the parents were staying with their daughters at the hospital.

 

The Shyre home was less than six minutes from the hospital by car, and he was just pulling onto the street when he noticed a familiar figure stepping down from the Shyre porch, hands tucked in jean pockets, walking with his head down. It seemed unlikely that Dean was a family friend, but Sam didn’t know much of anything to form a real opinion, still, he hung-back until the man had covered enough distance before he parked the impala and headed inside, just to be safe.

 

Sam entered every home with a lingering sense of expectation. He had no memories of having a home, but he always believed that at least a small deeply buried part of him still remembered what home felt like. He would wait, every time he entered some place, for a tingling, or niggling sense that ‘this was it’, that this was what he was missing, this was what a ‘home’ felt like. The Shyre house was no different than any of the other houses he’d entered before, impersonal and distant. He made his way to the girls’ bedroom, checking it over efficiently because that one moment of ‘maybe’ was all he could spare before he had to return to business.

 

The bed was unmade – no doubt the little girl’s father had simply pulled his daughter up and bundled her in warm things before heading to the hospital. There were stuffed toys and fond memories in colourful frames and no traces of EMF anywhere. Sam inspected every last thing and still found nothing, until, on a whim, he crossed to the window with the blue-light and caught-sight of a handprint – gnarled and long-fingered, but very clearly a print. It was on the outside of the window, like something had paused a moment on the sill – which would explain how the window had come to be open at all – and whatever had left it behind had rotted the wood of the sill in that perfect shape.

 

“Shtriga,” Sam muttered. “Son of a bitch.”

 

……………………………………

 

When Sam told John Winchester what he was hunting there was a long pause filled with the John’s quiet breath and Sam frowning, wanting his father to contribute some kind of clue as to what he was hunting, but as far as Sam knew, there was no weapon devised by god or man that could kill the thing – which didn’t leave a lot of room for improvisation.

 

“I don’t want you hunting this thing by yourself,” John said, breaking the silence.

 

“What? Why?”

 

“It’s bad enough you followed a vision into this mess, Sammy. You’re not hunting it by yourself.”

 

“Dad, I can’t just –“ but then there was only a dial tone and no chance to argue or question. “What the hell is it about this thing?” Sam wondered, closing his laptop and shoving some of the printouts off his bed. “It goes after kids, not adults.” Which made him pause, because his vision had very clearly shown him Dean, lying still with his eyes closed, Dean, who had been inside the Shyre home for some reason.

 

“My visions show me victims,” Sam declared to the empty room. “Not demons, not whatever is behind it.” But it was the simplest explanation. Dean was called a freak by the entire town for some reason – why not this? Why not because he wasn’t human? Just because Sam didn’t want it to be true, didn’t mean that might not be.

 

\-------------------

End Chapter Two:


	3. Dean

The morning of Sam’s third day in Fitchburg began with a thunderstorm louder than Sam had heard in over three years. He woke to a particularly vociferous rumble and had been unable to fall back into sleep. Sam didn’t mind rain much, except when it was cold rain, or when it was raining and he was trying to drive at night. Still, when he pulled aside the curtains the world was grey and wet, thick droplets of rain obscuring everything except the lighted signs of the motel which had been left on because it was so overcast.

 

Sam ventured far enough outside to contribute a pocketful of change to the motel’s vending machines in order to have some breakfast and was on his way back to his room when he saw a hunched figure running across the parking lot towards the motel office. The man was holding his leather jacket above his head, water sliding off the smooth surface and soaking into his jeans as he ran. Sam paused by his door to watch as the figure reached shelter and let his coat drop back around his shoulders, shaking his head like a dog would throw-off water. Dean wasn’t smiling when the motel owner’s son pushed open the door and waved him inside. Instead, he looked back over his shoulder, a frown pinching his slender brows as he surveyed the parking lot before he entered the motel.

 

“So this kid shows-up in unlikely places,” Bobby said, the shrug evident in his voice.

 

“I don’t believe in coincidences.” Just once, Sam wished that this were an exception, that there was no connection between Dean and the shtriga.

 

“You said yourself that your visions show you the victims.”

 

“Yeah, but they also used to come only when I was sleeping, and this one didn’t. It’s already different.”

 

“Look,” Bobby said. “You keep the option open, but you’re not going to go running out with a gun and shoot this kid on a hunch, okay? You’ve got time.”

 

“Yeah, time enough for my dad to get here,” Sam mumbled.

 

There was a pause, and then Bobby sighed. “Look, Sam. You might not remember but your daddy – he faced-off against a shtriga before.”

 

“He did?”

 

“Yeah. That was back when … well, when things were different for your daddy.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“He never talks about it much,” Bobby said. “It’s probably better if you spoke with him about it, but don’t go giving him a hard time with this. First with the vision, and now a shtriga – it’s too much to ask of the man, Sam. It’s got too much tied-up with it.”

 

“This is different,” Sam denied. “It’s not anything like then. I’m an adult, not a kid. I know more about hunting, I’ve got more experience.”

 

“Sam,” Bobby said. “Just – keep what I said in mind. And don’t go thinking you’re invincible, or that you’re different, or better.”

 

“I’m not saying I’m …” but it was what he had been saying. He was an adult, he knew what he was doing – or thought he did. He wanted his father to see him as an adult, but the man never could – for a reason that had little to do with him. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

 

“Good man,” Bobby said. “Now, keep in mind what else I told you about that shtriga, and keep your eyes open. Just because you’re daddy doesn’t want you hunting it on your own, doesn’t mean you can’t figure out who it is, or where it will strike next.”

 

………………………………………………

 

Sam was never so aware of the time passing as he was sitting in his motel room listening to the rain coming down. Fitchburg might have been a small town, but it had a fair sized population, at least when considering how to locate a single shtriga posing as a citizen. Shtriga’s usually took the form of an older woman, but after laying-out the locations of each of the kids’ houses, Sam found them all in the radius of the hospital – which didn’t narrow the field as far as old women went. It also didn’t mean that this shtriga wasn’t masquerading as a man.

 

So Sam had little to go on, and his father was likely on the road at that moment heading to Fitchburg to help Sam on the hunt. The last thing Sam wanted was for John to come and complicate things. John had strict proceedings when it came to Sam’s visions, he was overbearing and strict and Sam was not prepared to take orders when it came to this. His vision had been vague, but the emotion attached to it had been intense. Sam was almost entirely at the mercy of his instincts and thus far they hadn’t led him wrong – but John was leery enough of Sam’s instincts as it was, he wouldn’t be prepared to tolerate Sam’s way of handling the hunt.

 

Migraines were not new to Sam, especially since his visions had started. They came with stress, so Sam wasn’t surprised when he felt that familiar dull throbbing ache in his head beginning. He was sitting on his bed, surrounding by weapons that he had been taking apart and cleaning, and the pain was steadily increasing. Pressing his fingers between his brow in a futile attempt to stave-off the impending migraine, Sam staggered to his duffel and searched for the painkillers that he always kept on hand – the bottle was there, but it was empty. “Fuck,” he muttered, whipping the plastic bottle across the room, then hissing when the ‘tock’ it made as it hit the wall echoed in his head.

 

Still cursing, Sam grabbed the keys to the impala and to the motel as he strode out of the room, letting the door slam behind him. The sound of the closing door was swallowed by the pelting rain, he ducked his head beneath his coat so he wouldn’t get as wet and jogged across the parking lot toward the main building of the motel. His boots made the water on the pavement jump, soaking his shoes and jeans, and Sam tried to focus on the movement – to dull the sound of the rain and his pounding head and his feet splashing through puddles on pavement – and maybe that was why he didn’t notice Dean. Not until they had collided and Sam had almost sent the shorter man sprawling into a puddle. Sam’s reflexes -- migraine or no -- were still quick, and he reached out, letting his coat drop back around his shoulders and he caught-hold of Dean before the man could fall.

 

“Hey, sorry Man, I didn’t see you,” Sam said, the words stumbling out because the rain was making the spicey scent of Dean’s shampoo more potent, and they were actually quite close. “Hey, are you okay?” Dean wasn’t looking at him, his eyes were unfocussed, his head tilted towards the ground and beneath Sam’s hands Dean’s body was entirely rigid. “Hey.” Sam ducked his head so he could meet the other man’s eyes, but Dean had squeezed them tight shut, his entire expression morphing into one of pain.

 

“No,” Dean said, his voice a soft exhalation of air, like he wasn’t speaking to Sam, like the word was meant for something else.

 

“Let me help,” Sam said. “Let’s get inside.” Dean jerked his body back, one arm hooking through Sam’s arms in a fighting manoeuvre that John had taught Sam when he was fourteen. But Sam wasn’t expecting it, and Dean effectively disengaged Sam’s grasp and backed away before Sam was even fully aware of what was happening. His hands flew-up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

 

“What?” Dean asked, he winced a little and then shook his head as if to clear it.

 

“I won’t hurt you, okay? I just – look, maybe you should come inside, sit down for a bit.”

 

“Sit down?” Dean said, clearly confused. Sam might have begun to wonder if what he had seen had actually happened if he weren’t in the business of believing in the impossible. “I’m fine.” He had a hand up to his head and was frowning a little, he still hadn’t met Sam’s gaze. “Shit, it’s raining.”

 

Sam’s brows rose in surprise because the rain was hard to miss, especially when it had soaked them both through so thoroughly. “I think you need some help.”

 

Dean laughed a little, his eyes bitter and his expression oddly frozen. “You have no idea.” Sam held out a hand and nodded his head towards the main building of 2400 Court. Dean’s looked at the outstretched hand and backed-up a step. Sam watched as Dean made an effort to drag his eyes up to meet Sam’s and smile cockily. “See ya around.” And then Dean turned and was lost in the gloom.

 

Sam stood there a moment, wondering what had just happened. He’d only tried to help, just caught the man before he’d landed on his ass in a puddle. There had been nothing inappropriate in the gesture – and even if there were, Sam was certain that Dean had been flirting with him since he’d first walked into the Wyvern. Why the strange reaction?

 

“Can I help you?” a voice asked, and Sam realized he’d entered the main building and was standing by the front desk of the motel where motel manager’s eldest son was looking up at him.

 

“Uh,” Sam said, rubbing his brow and trying to remember why he’d been venturing out in such poor weather to begin with. The dull throbbing in his head was a not-so-welcome reminder. “Yeah, where is the nearest pharmacy?”

 

“It’s Luke’s place. Just around the corner,” the kid said, gesturing with his left arm to indicate.

 

“Thanks,” Sam said, already turning on his heel.

 

………………………

 

The best cure for a migraine, as Sam had come to discover (having tried them all), were three vaguely kryptonite-coloured painkillers, a small dark (and preferably warm) space, and the ability to pretend that the world did not exist.

 

He spent most of the day curled underneath his blankets immersed in his own pain as the migraine built and then began (thank god) to ebb. The absence of the blinding throbbing was almost an ache in itself, the relief being intense. He slept for a few hours and woke with his mind clear and focussed, already turning over his run-in with Dean in the early morning.

 

There was no way to know if Dean had been out-of-sorts from the beginning, because Sam had been intent on the pavement beneath his feet. Their collision replayed again and again in his mind’s eye and Sam remembered how Dean’s eyes had widened as he’d braced himself to fall, how his arms had stretched out to grasp something – anything to stop his descent – and Sam had been there, his hands grasping Dean’s upper arms, gripping worn leather … Sam frowned as he thought back. Dean had been wearing his worn brown leather coat as he’d jogged into the main building, but it hadn’t been on him as he’d left it again. Sam vaguely recalled seeing it hanging on the coat-rack by the door, water dripping off it and making a puddle on the floor. Dean had been out in the rain with only his T-shirt – Sam could recall how the cotton had clung to his body, the feel of the damp shirt and Dean’s slick skin beneath his fingers.

 

Sam sat-up in bed. Dean hadn’t shown any outward sign of pain until Sam had grasped his arms, and then his entire body had jerked and he’d become rigid with tension, and he’d been wincing. Whatever had happened, it had been a result of Sam making contact with Dean’s skin.

 

“Ugh,” Sam said, shaking his head as he scraped the fingers of both hands through his shaggy mass of hair. “Stop making so much of this.” Wishful thinking, maybe. But either way, one vaguely recalled incident was not going to solve the riddle that was Dean.

 

Kicking the blankets aside, Sam scooped his clothes up from where he’d tossed them on the motel chair, hurriedly tugging on his shirt and pulling on his jeans. He shoved his feet into his sneakers and grabbed the keys to the motel and the car from the desk. He’d wasted enough time with the damned migraine, now it was time to make some headway on the damned vision.

 

…………………………..

 

Dean didn’t look any worse for wear as he stalked down the street, his hands in his jean pockets and his head bent low. He wasn’t dressed to be working at the bar, although it was getting closer to evening. And though the rain had stopped, the streets were still wet, a dampness lurking in the air – still, Dean was walking in a pair of beat-up one-stars with his jeans picking-up rainwater and mud along the cuffs.

 

Sam ditched the impala, but there wasn’t a lot of opportunity to lose himself in a crowd. He kept a fair bit of distance between himself and the man he was following, pausing frequently to watch Dean’s reflection in a shop’s window from across the street.

 

Dean disappeared into Rosemary’s Diner, and Sam took the opportunity to duck into Burt’s and pick-up a large coffee before he continued passed the Diner in order to sit on one of the empty swings in the park. From there Sam had a clear view of the door.

 

Nighttimes in Fitchburg, as Sam was coming to learn, were cool but not overly so. The rain made the streets smell like fresh earth in a way that rainfall in cities never did. Twilight was always a quiet time, with people drifting between the bustle of the afternoon and the quietude of the night, and Sam sat and watched as the ‘Welcome’ signs were flipped-over and the fluorescent ‘Open’ signs came on in other stores. There were a surprising number of people strolling along the sidewalk. Sam tried to imagine what it would be like to live in a town like that. Nodding at neighbours and friends as you crossed each other on evening walks, where strangers passing-through were welcomed because they had new stories that hadn’t been shared and shared again. He imagined a house with a lawn to cut, pulling mail out of a personalized mailbox at the end of the driveway.

 

He thought of explaining his migraines to concerned neighbours. Of what excuse to give when a vision sent him sprawling while he was buying groceries, moving the lawn, walking down the street. He wondered what people would whisper when his father would pass-through – because no picture of the future, however imaginary it was, could exist without taking into account John’s frequent check-ins to make sure Sam was alive and well and accounted for. Sam could not picture the sleek impala parked in front of one of the friendly two-storeys he’d seen driving through the Shyres’ neighbourhood, the shining black of the car would clash with the soft warm greens and cheery yellows of the painted houses.

 

Sam finished-off the coffee and tossed it in the trash, the gesture taking him to the edge of the park, and it was hard to miss the four broad-shouldered men who had congregated by Rosemary’s. He checked the street but no one seemed to think the laughing and jostling group of boys was anything unusual, although most of the moseying crowd had moved along now that the sun was almost set. Sam caught-sight of Dean stepping out of the side door, his hands in his pockets – seemingly casual – except he bent forward, peered as far as he could around the corner. Rosemary had gotten-out her broom and was shooing the boys along with accompanying noises. There was a moment just as the boys were about to move along and Dean was turning to travel along the bikeway, that everyone just froze, eyeing each other like none of them had been expecting to see the others there. It was gone quickly, the group of boys lurching forward and Dean turning on his heals, sprinting into the darkness of the alley at a surprising speed. Sam took off after them.

 

He didn’t have to go far. He rounded a corner between the large green trash bin for the fancy restaurant, and the backdoor to one of Fitchburg’s many bookshops in time to see Dean hold his hands up in apparent surrender. “Don’t hurt me,” Dean said, his voice just bordering on taunting as he pouted and batted his eyes. “I’m all by myself. I can’t possibly fight all of you.”

 

“Son of a –“ but the other man’s retort – delivered along with a fierce upswing – was cut-off as Dean darted forward and in three swift moves had the man on his back. There was no pause between the man striking the ground and the others surging forward, and Sam stopped running towards the fight and instead watched it. Dean knew what he was doing – a strange mixture of attacks that merged more than one fighting style together. Sam was darkly pleased to note that Dean fought dirty, and when he finally turned his back and walked away, it was because all four of his opponents were neatly stacked one on top of the other in an ungainly heap of groaning pain and twitching limbs. Sam jogged to catch-up but when he reached a fork in the alley, he couldn’t see Dean anywhere.

 

…………………………..

 

Despite the fact that it had been Sam who had initiated the phone call, John greeted him with a gruff “Where were you?”

 

Which of course had the effect of putting Sam on the defensive, “Why?”

 

“I told you not to hunt that thing!”

 

“I wasn’t hunting it! And don’t pretend you know what I’m doing because you don’t. I had my cell phone, if you had wanted to reach me you could have!”

 

“I’m about two days away from you, Sammy.”

 

“Well, that’s great, dad. What do you want me to do? Sit tight and keep my head down?”

 

“That’s exactly what I want you to do!” John growled. “You keep your damned head down and salt every window and door where you’re staying.”

 

“I’m not hiding in some stupid motel until you get here! I’m not a little kid anymore.”

 

“If you have to do something, find me whoever the damned shtriga is masquerading as, but you don’t let on that you know what it is, got me?”

 

“Sir,” Sam bit out, and then flipped his phone closed, wishing he could fling it into a wall. He slumped onto the bed, running his hands through his hair and trying to shake-off his aggravation. Two day away meant Sam had two days to find the shtriga and kill it, and also, to figure-out what the hell was going on with Dean.

 

……………………………………

 

Dean’s house was blue with dark blue shutters. The garden was in full bloom and led Sam to believe that someone else was living with the man because Dean hadn’t seemed like the sort to tend tulips. Sam took it all in as he walked-up the stone pathway, standing in front of the red-painted door and waiting for someone to answer after his knock.

 

“Sam,” Sophia said, and then she stepped aside and opened the door wider. “Come in. Don’t bother with anymore lies.” She waved him on when he didn’t immediately stepped forward.

 

“You called me Winchester, before,” he said, eyeing her cautiously. She grinned a little, mischief in her eyes.

 

From inside the house Sam could hear Dean’s call, “Who is it?”

 

“You know damned well who it is!” Sophia retorted before turning back to Sam and raising her eyebrows. “Well, are you coming in?” Sam stepped into the bright hallway and watched awkwardly as Sophia closed the door and gestured to the end of the hall. “Just in time for breakfast. You’re starting your day pretty early.”

 

It wasn’t that early, around ten o’clock. Sam had been up for well over four hours but hadn’t wanted to wake the whole house and make enemies by knocking on the door before it was even bright out. He followed her into the kitchen where Dean looked-up from chopping vegetables and frowned when he saw Sam standing framed in the doorway.

 

“What’s he doing here, Soph?”

 

“Don’t mess with me, Dean. I’m so not in the mood for it,” she said, joining him on the other side of the island and picking-up a knife. From what was laid-out, it looked like they were preparing omelettes. “Go ahead,” she said, gesturing to Sam as if there were a stage she was inviting him to perform on.

 

“What happened the last time I saw you? At the motel?” Sam asked, surprised that it was the first thing that came to mind. There were plenty of other more important questions he had for the man.

 

“I had a migraine,” Dean answered quickly.

 

“A migraine?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean said, glancing up from where he’d returned to dicing peppers. “What, you’ve never had a migraine before?”

 

“I’ve had plenty of migraines. I’ve just never had one that looked like that.”

 

“Look,” Dean said, still holding the knife, and leaning forward across the island. “I don’t even know you. You’re not from here, you’ve lied to pretty much everyone I know, you’ve been following me since you came into town. The only reason you’re standing here at all, besides the fact that Sophia is an idiot, is that you haven’t lied to me – yet – and that’s all, Sammy. So cut the bullshit, Mr. Hunter, because you’ve got no one in this room fooled.”

 

“You called me Sammy.”

 

“What?” Dean asked, using the sleeve on the arm that was still grasping the knife to rub an itch on his nose.

 

“And you said I was a hunter.”

 

“Well, that’s what you are, isn’t it? Cheap motels, grizzled gun-toting dudes in flannel driving sweet-ass rides, oh, and black dogs, poltergeists, that kinda thing. That’s the package, right?”

 

“But how could you know that?”

 

Dean gestured with the knife towards Sam. “Judging from the cover, is all.”

 

“Right,” Sam said, smiling a little. “Because I haven’t worn flannel once since I got here, and I don’t have a beard.”

 

“Haven’t said anything about that gun, though, have you?”

 

“The fact that I’m carrying a gun does not explain how you knew it was there!”

 

“Wait, you’re carrying a gun?” Sophia asked.

 

“I told you he was,” Dean said.

 

“Yeah, but I thought that was a metaphor!” She turned to Sam and held-out an expectant hand. “Give it here.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“Because you might shoot Dean! He has that effect on people sometimes!” Sam pulled his gun from the back of his pants where he usually stashed it and handed it over. It was simpler to comply until he knew what was going on. It also didn’t change the fact that he had a knife in his pocket. “Now would you stop pussyfooting around each other?”

 

Dean sniffed and went back to cutting the peppers, scraping his work into his palm so he could add it to the bowl of beaten eggs. Sam thought this was likely the time to go out on a limb. “I have visions, sometimes.” That didn’t seem to get any sort of reaction, so he continued. “I had one that brought me here, and it showed me you,” he nodded to Dean. “I’m a hunter – like you said – and usually the visions have something to do with a hunt. I asked around and I heard what’s been happening to the kids.”

 

Sam had Dean’s full attention. “You know what it is?”

 

“A shtriga,” Sam said. “It feeds-off the energy, or life-force, usually of kids.”

 

“How do you stop it?” Dean’s eyes were dangerous and intense, Sam thought-back to how he had considered Dean a possible suspect for the shtriga’s mask, but now he was forming a very different picture. He’d thought he’d flush Dean out – if the man was actually the shtriga, there would be some noticeable reaction to hearing it aloud, if he wasn’t, then maybe he would have some idea of what was going on. Sam had nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Either way, he knew Dean was involved in this, that he had to be involved – his vision had made that clear.

 

“I don’t know how to stop it,” Sam admitted, though it tasted bitter in his mouth. Dean snorted and picked-up the bowl, turning to the pan he had waiting on the stove. Sophia barely had a chance to squawk and fling the ham she’d been slicing into the bowl.

 

“Well, it was nice talkin’ with you.”

 

“Dismissing me so quickly?” Sam asked. “I have contacts, I have weapons.”

 

“You have a deadline and something to prove,” Dean muttered, quiet, but loud enough for Sam to hear – Sam had been listening for muffled whispers since he was nine and his childish imaginings of there maybe being something in his closet had prompted his father to frown darkly and hand him a .45.

 

“Yeah, that’s right,” Sam said. “And if you’re going to keep doing that, you’re gonna explain it to me.” Dean looked like a recalcitrant child, turned partially away like he couldn’t quite voice it out loud.

 

“He’s psychic,” Sophia said. “Well, I mean, he’s a bit of an empathy too and he can …” Dean shuts her up with a ‘what the fuck?’ look that has Sam biting down on a smile. He wants to laugh, because there is something like relief coursing through him, something like coming home, like that moment on a rollercoaster when you’re climbing faster-higher and your stomach jumps. So Dean’s a freak – as much of a freak as Sam is. It’s like they’ve become some kind of united front as a result of this shared (fucked-up) perception that they never asked for but have just the same.

 

“So it wasn’t a migraine,” is the first thing that Sam thinks to say.

 

Dean turns around and quirks an eyebrow. “Hardly. You’ve gotta learnt to keep yourself to yourself, Man. You’re bleedin’ heart’s all over the place, just about anyone can step in it.”

 

“So if I touch you, you can what – read my mind?”

 

“A bit of this a bit of that,” Dean said with a shrug. “I pick-up things sometimes, same with objects, too. A thought, a hurt, a memory. With people, if I’m not careful, and they’re not focussed, it’ll go on until they let me go.” It was what happened out in the parking lot, only Sam hadn’t known to let go, and Dean had likely had to swim-up from whatever memories Sam had been drowning him in and break the hold.

 

“That’s what you were doing in the Shyre place,” Sam said.

 

“Yeah, touching things,” Dean joked. “I’ve been keepin’ an eye on these kids and no matter what the doctors say, it’s not a sickness. It’s a thing, with long fingers and a black cloak.”

 

“You’ve seen the shtriga?”

 

“Not exactly,” Dean admitted, sharing a look with Sophia. “Michael has.”

 

“Michael?”

 

“You should know him, you see him everyday at the motel,” Sophia said. “Joanna’s kid. Well, one of them.”

 

“Asher got sick just last night,” Dean says, his tone different, quieter.

 

“This demon, it works it’s way through siblings. I mean, I was trying to find some sort of pattern, but this is better. Tonight, it will be coming for Michael…”

 

“So all we need to do is figure-out how to kill it, and we’ll be set,” Dean said. Sophia was smirking a little at them.

 

“We?” Sam asked. “You’re gonna help?”

 

“Help?” Dean asked. “The way I see it, this is my town, and Soph and I were tracking this thing before you got here. You’re gonna help us.” Dean had hefted Sam’s gun into his hand with a casual familiarity that let Sam know just how skilled the man likely was with the weapon, then Dean changed his grasp, offered the handle of the gun towards Sam. “That sit fine with you, Mr. Hunter?”

 

“That works,” Sam said with a smile.

 

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End Chapter Three:


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